


The Blue of Her Eyes

by Liena67



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Heathrow, Love, Passion, Rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 23:05:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14507433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liena67/pseuds/Liena67
Summary: This story was born of a wish expressed by one of my followers on wattpadd in Italy and is outside the two series that I am already translating and publishing.What happened after Sherlock discovered Irene's phone password and left her in Mycroft's custody?This is what I imagined.





	The Blue of Her Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Happy reading and always forgive my English (my stories are translated from Italian which is my language)

It’s a deafening noise what he is hearing, a sound that echoes throughout his body, in his veins, in his mind. But it’s not the roar of a plane that rolls on the Heathrow track that is making Sherlock's body vibrate. It’s the fury that is growing in him, the anger combined with a deep and incomprehensible pain that increases his heart rate exponentially. Like an inner scream that overpowers any sound outside of him. How could that woman be able to deceive him so easily. How could he fall into that trap. The questions in his mind crowd and follow each other as he walks away from the airport, where he left Irene in custody of Mycroft.  
Tight in his long coat, he refused to be driven home by car. He needs to think, to reflect, he needs to go back to free his mind, to go back to being lucid and cold as for a life he has always endeavored to be. He won, at the end he won, as always. And why then he still feels this incredible fury, this deep pain. Anger perhaps for helping to blow up Mycroft's plan to evade the terrorist attack on the plane and at the same time keep the network of criminals, which was organizing it, under control. Yes, it must be for this reason that now he would like to punch a wall. But the pain is more interior, something that is not just anger, something that cannot be explained, that he has never tried before.  
The night air makes him shiver as he walks along the uncrowded streets of the London suburbs. The tube is still open, maybe he could take the last ride. But he still feels the need to walk, to let fresh air into his lungs, as if this could free his mind from that image, that continues to appear continuously, from those whispered words, from those shining eyes.

_"Nothing of what I said was real, I was just playing my game"_

Sherlock sighs, raising the collar of his coat. That woman managed to confuse him like no one before. Now he no longer knows whether to believe his instincts. Because he believed her at that moment, he felt inside himself that those words were true, that she was apologizing for what she had said to him earlier, in front of his brother. And if instead it was just a last attempt to deceive him? Doubt, she has instilled doubt in him, he has no certainties when that woman is facing. And this is a feeling that now makes him even more furious. Enough, from this moment Irene Adler no longer exists. She must no longer exist, he must no longer allow her to make him so confused.

When he arrives at 221B of Baker Street it is now late at night. In silence, he opens the door of his house, leaving his coat in the entrance, and quickly goes upstairs. John has to be back but he's already asleep, because the living room is empty. Better that way, he doesn’t want to face his questions right now. He goes to the bedroom and, once inside, he puts his jacket in the closet. Take off his shoes, he lies down on the bed without even undressing. He closes his eyes, resting his head on the pillow, breathing deeply, but in doing so his nostrils are invaded by her scent. Sherlock immediately reopens his eyes and sighing rises. He looks at the pillow, remembering how he had found her hours ago sleeping in his bed. Her scent is everywhere and envelops him. With a burst of anger, he gets up and goes back to the living room. The sofa will be fine, after all it's not the first nor the last time he'll sleep there. Sleeping, it’s not something that he generally feels particularly needed, he sleeps only the bare necessities, but right now he wants to sleep, sleep not to think, sleep to ward off that image and this anger that does not subside, sleep to wake up the next day and to be the Sherlock of all time.

 

Irene Adler looks through the window at the lights of the planes that land and start from the landing strips. The voice of Mycroft behind her, who speaks on the phone with someone, deciding what will be her own life from now on, it seems to her only an indistinct noise. It does not matter, it does not matter now. She lost, she lost everything. Her power, her money, her business. From now on The Woman, the Dominatrix, is no longer anyone. She can only hope to survive. Yet it is none of this that now weighs the most. Not the humiliation of having lost, nor all that follows. Not the fear of her life or the thought of passing it somewhere. It’s that look full of anger and pain that weighs on her heart, a pain hidden behind the blue-green of his eyes, that in every way he tried to keep cold and detached. But she knows, she can always see what is hidden in the deepest soul of people and knows she has hurt him. Each of those horrible things that she told him, hit him hard, with more force than she could ever do with her whip. And the funny, strange, paradoxical thing was that every word struck him and struck her as well. Like a boomerang, like the boomerang of the sportsman who, coming back, had decreed his death. But she could not hold back now. The game had gone too far, the mechanism was impossible to stop. Only Sherlock could stop it, only his extraordinary mind could shelter Moriarty's disastrous criminal plan, which she herself had helped feed. And she had hoped, in her heart while she struck him with those words, humiliating him in front of his own brother, Irene, in her deepest self, had hoped that he would understand her password, that password that only a few hours before she had decided to change.

"Well Miss Adler... it's time to go" the voice of cold and authoritarian Mycroft interrupts her thoughts.  
"Where does Mr. Holmes take me? In some maximum security prison? One of those places that nobody knows and whose keys are thrown to the bottom of the sea?" Irene turns to the man, the look proud again and again, the tone slightly sarcastic, the arms crossed on her breasts, as if she still wanted to challenge him, despite no longer having any weapon to fight with.  
"I would be tempted to do it, to tell the truth, and it would be the best solution for everyone..."  
"And why will not you do it instead?"  
"I have my reasons..."  
"I see... we all have a weak point... are you, Mr. Holmes?"  
"Apparently... yes"

* * *

Four months, one hundred and twenty days. It's been four months since that night, that damn night in that damned airport, and yet his mind has not completely freed from that woman. How this is possible is something that he just can’t explain himself. He does not even know where she is right now, because Irene has been out of control of Mycroft for a few days. Sherlock, seated in his armchair, for a moment smiles at the thought of how Irene managed to mock her brother, because it is stronger than him, he can’t help admiring her intelligence. And this thought at the same time makes him angry. In these months he has resumed his life as usual, he is back to being the Sherlock of all time, at least in the presence of John. Because he doesn’t want questions, he doesn’t want to answer any questions, he is not able to do it. But when he stays alone like now and his mind is not occupied by any chance, she returns, the thought of her always returns, overbearing, tenacious, stubborn as she is in reality.  
Mrs. Hudson downstairs has now gone to sleep and John will not be home tonight. He has a new girlfriend and it always happens like that at first, he hardly ever comes back for the night. Then a new case will arrive and Juliette will disappear like the others. Or is she called Claire? Or maybe Rachel? Sherlock shakes his head resigned to never remembering the names of John’s girlfriends, but then it does not matter, they have no importance, remembering their names would take up unnecessary space in his mental palace. He squints his eyes, reaching his hands under his chin, and breathing deeply, he tries to concentrate to enter his mental palace. The last case solved by a particular theft had important details, which could be useful in the future, and he wants to keep them in one of the rooms. An excellent method, useful right now to remove the image of Irene that continues to come to mind. There is a room in the cellars of his building, where he keeps the cases of theft he has solved, and a wardrobe with lots of shelves, where he keeps the files divided in alphabetical order. Here, the file is arranged, the closet is closed, he leaves the room and closes it, proceeding to the corridor and then up the stairs, which lead from the cellar of his mental palace to the upper floors. Maybe he could enter the room of passionate murders and review some cases. But there is something that distracts him, something that is making his palace smoky and tarnished, something that is filling his nostrils. It’s her scent, strong, intense, bitter and sweet at the same time.  
Sherlock opens his eyes and she is there.

 

Irene spent almost half an hour hidden in an alley in the shade, at the back of Sherlock's home. Camouflaged by a sweatshirt with the hood up, wearing on simple blue jeans, she has eluded all surveillance cameras of the block, knowing that Mycroft certainly is personally controlling the neighborhood where his brother lives. But no one would imagine seeing The Woman in clothes that would wear a university girl and for her to blend in and assume other identities is simple. She has already arranged her escape from the country for the following day. She doesn’t want to go through a segregated life, but she has to defend herself from those who want her dead, and there are many who want it, Moriarty first. Irene knows too many things about too many people and is no longer considered reliable. A crazy sliver that can drop many heads.  
But now she's here, under the window that she once used to sneak into his house. She should be already far from London or at least hidden. But she can’t leave without saying hello, it's something she feels she has to do.  
With the agility of a feline, she reaches the window and enters the house without making any noise. The only light comes from the living room and silently she walks along the corridor until she reaches it. Sherlock is there, sitting in his armchair, clearly locked in his mental palace.  
Irene smiles, lowering the hood of the sweatshirt and takes a seat in John's armchair, taking off her flat shoes. The legs folded in a comfortable position, she watches him. She likes to watch him in this moment of trance. She wonders how this building is made, if it has real rooms. She would like to be able to be there, too, but only to watch him working with his extraordinary mind. Time passes, she does not even know how much, until she sees Sherlock breathe deeply and slowly open his eyes. And here it happens again, her heart suddenly accelerates when their eyes meet.

"Welcome back"  
"I can’t say the same... you should lose the habit of entering my house in secret"

Irene smiles slightly, as if his coldness and detached tone had no effect on her, or at least not the effect that normally have to all people. In reality, she funs with his way of doing.  
"Too late to knock... it would have been rude to wake up Mrs. Hudson"  
"You could then avoid coming... I don’t see what the reason for your presence here is now. Don’t ask me for help again, because I'm not willing to give it to you"

Sherlock gets up with his back, his hands crossed behind his back and looks at the almost deserted street from the window at this late hour of night.

"I'm not asking for help, Sherlock." Irene's warm voice is almost a whisper and she looks his back that he is now obstinately giving her. She passes a hand through her hair, which she wears loose on her shoulders and gets up from her armchair, walking barefoot until she reaches him.  
"I just wanted to say hello before leaving"

Sherlock turns slowly and looks at her without saying anything for several minutes. Those eyes so blue and intense, the look proud but behind which she hides a veil of sadness, the clothes that cannot hide anything of her innate sensuality. He has never been particularly sensitive to female beauty, but this woman has something special, different, something that shakes him inside.

"There was no need... however well... goodbye then Miss Adler". Detachment, it takes detachment, he must keep her at a distance, he knows, this woman is too dangerous.

Irene can’t take her eyes off his. She could drown in that look, even now that he treats her with a coldness that would make any woman tremble, but not her. Because now in those eyes she no longer sees the pain of that evening four months ago, maybe there is still anger in him but this is a feeling that she can and can handle.  
"It could be a definitive goodbye" she says to him after a few moments.

Sherlock does not answer, he still continues to look at her, then without saying anything, he moves past her to the door of the living room, still closed.

Irene looks at him and can’t hold back a sigh.  
"I see" she says simply by going near the armchair where she had left her shoes. She then approaches the door where Sherlock is still stationary. Here, this is probably the last time she will see him, but he is not going to lower any of his barriers, because she feels it, she sees it, she knows that behind that coldness and that detachment he hides more. But maybe it's not enough, or maybe the way she deceived him broke something in him. Irene sighs knowing that these are questions that will remain unanswered and with one hand takes the door handle.  
"Then goodbye Sherlock" she tells him, before starting to open the door.

Sherlock has not lost her movement, her sigh, her look. That damned perfume is confusing him. He watches her put her shoes back on, approach and say goodbye, with that tone and those eyes that are able to keep themselves proud even in defeat. Behold, now she will come out of this door and he will not see her again. She will disappear forever from his eyes, from his life and maybe even one day from his mind. It's what he wants, it's what it takes to get back to being lucid and present to himself, because right now he feels he is not. The mind is a whirlwind of disconnected and conflicting thoughts. The door opens a few inches and suddenly closes again. His hand, his hand against his own will, is on Irene's hand around the door handle, that he has closed again. Sherlock looks at his hand as if he were looking at an unknown object. An instinctive gesture, an impulse that has not been able to stop, something that his mind has not even registered until after the hand has moved.

Irene looks at that hand that now covers hers and the door closed again. Suddenly her heart has accelerated like a train and for a few moments she holds her breath, but does not look up, she continues to look before herself. She feels his breath and watches his hand take hers up to her wrist. Irene now raises her eyes, crossing them with his.

"Do you want to take my pulse again? You don’t need to do it Sherlock... I would say that we have already established it," she says in an almost hard tone now.

Sherlock does not answer but smiles slightly. The almost angry reaction of her, fascinates him. An instinctive, uncalculated, genuine reaction. He raises her hand until he is resting it on his chest where his heart is beating fast and fast. The thought that she can get out of that door and not see her again is something that strikes him in his deepest soul and is so unbearable to overcome everything, all the rage, the fear, the confusion. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t even know what to think. The only thing he can do is look at her and hold her hand on his heart.

Irene looks at him fascinated. This man has an exceptional talk and certainly he never misses the words, but for minutes he is not saying anything. Yet he is communicating millions of emotions that not even in a billion words could be described. Under her hand he feels his heart beating fast and fast, just like hers, she feels the warmth of his body even under his shirt and her lips hatch as if she suddenly misses the air. She looks at that mouth now a few inches from her and can no longer resist. Slowly approaching and placing her other hand on the nape of him, she gently pulls towards her, standing on tiptoe. She looks at him for a moment in his eyes, almost as if to be sure that he wants it too, and then she finally feels those soft lips touch hers. Irene has never loved kissing, or perhaps she has never loved anyone, nor really desired anyone as she desires now this man, and that simple kiss, those lips just opened, make her shiver, as she can’t remember it ever happened. She intertwines her fingers between his curls, nibbles his lips lightly, laps his lips with her tongue and when she feels his tongue approach hers, she lets go to a hoarse moan and hugs him.

Sherlock can no longer think, he doesn’t know anything anymore, he doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t hear anything around him except her lips, her hands, her body against his, her intoxicating scent and that hoarse moan that now shakes him inside, causing him endless shivers throughout his body. And it is as if something had snapped in him, something instinctive, primordial. His hands pass around her face as he pushes her against the door and the kiss becomes ever deeper, sensual, passionate. His body is reacting as if he had his own will and he can’t stop it, he doesn’t want to stop it. He now just wants to feel her against him, around him, lips against his lips, skin against skin, a single breath, a single heart that beats madly.

And this time not even the end of the world can stop him from drowning in the blue of her eyes.


End file.
